Chapter 4: Infiltrated Deceit
The wire felt like a live insect trapped beneath her skin.
Teresa stood in the cramped, overly warm bathroom of Nate’s unmarked sedan, trying not to shiver as Callum’s hands worked at the small of her back. His fingers were deft, professional, but the brush of his knuckles against the bare skin above the waistband of her tailored black trousers sent a current through her that had nothing to do with fear.
“The transmitter is here,” he said, his voice a low murmur in the confined space. He tapped a spot just below her left shoulder blade. “The microphone is a thread, runs up the inner seam of your blouse, terminates at the second button. Don’t fiddle with it. Don’t adjust your clothes excessively. It’s sensitive.”
“I get it. I’m not a child.” She sounded brittle, even to herself.
His hands stilled. She could feel his breath on the nape of her neck. “You need to be.”
He finished securing the tape, his touch lingering for a half-second too long before he stepped back, allowing a rush of cooler air between them. Teresa turned, hastily pulling down the hem of her silk blouse—a deep emerald green, borrowed from a richer, more daring friend. It felt like a costume.
Callum looked her over. His gaze was clinical, assessing the fit of the clothes, the elegant twist of her platinum hair, the subtle but effective makeup that made her look older, harder, like someone who belonged in a room where a single painting cost more than her cottage. But his eyes, when they finally met hers, held a storm.
“Nate is your date. His name tonight is Ben. You met two months ago at a charity auction. You’re an art consultant from Vancouver, in town scouting. He’s in finance. Keep it simple. Stick to that.”
“I remember the briefing, Callum.”
“Then remember this,” he said, stepping closer again, invading her space. The car seemed to shrink. “This is recon. Eyes and ears only. You are not a cop. You are not a vigilante. You are a listener. If you see something, you note it. You do not engage. You do not follow anyone into a private room. If you feel threatened, for any reason, you say the word ‘crimson’. Nate will extract you immediately. Do you understand?”
“Crimson. Yes.”
“Say it back.”
“I say ‘crimson’, and we leave. I understand.”
He searched her face, looking for a crack in her resolve. She held his stare, her bright blue eyes defiant in the dim interior light. The ghost of the warehouse was between them, the memory of the crunch and her subsequent shaking.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“But you are.” She reached for the door handle. “Because the rulebook isn’t working.”
She slipped out of the car before he could reply. The night air was cool, carrying the distant scent of the harbor and expensive perfume. Nate Williams stood by the curb, looking unnaturally polished in a tailored suit. He gave her a small, reassuring smile that didn’t reach his wary eyes.
“Ready, Teresa?”
“As I’ll ever be, Ben.”
They walked up the illuminated path to the converted waterfront warehouse. The event was called a “curated tasting”—avant-garde sculpture paired with rare Japanese whisky. The invitation, sourced through a chain of favors and blind eyes Callum had reluctantly called in, was nestled in Nate’s inside pocket.
A man in a black suit with a discreet earpiece checked their names off a list. The doors opened, and sound and light spilled out.
The gallery was a cavern of polished concrete and steel, the air thick with a low hum of conversation and the astringent smell of spirits. People stood in clusters, holding heavy crystal glasses, their faces illuminated by the stark spotlights focused on twisted metal and glass forms. Everyone looked sleek, insulated by money and status. Teresa felt the wire like a brand.
“Head to the right,” Callum’s voice whispered in her ear, tinny and intimate through the nearly invisible receiver. “The main crowd is near the large installation. Move slowly.”
She looped her arm through Nate’s, her grip tighter than necessary.
“Easy,” he murmured, patting her hand. “You’re here to look at art. So look.”
They drifted. Teresa pretended to study a jagged piece of blown glass while her eyes scanned the room. She saw men in sharp suits, women in minimalist dresses that cost a fortune. Laughter that sounded like the clink of ice in a glass. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing felt like ‘the gallery’ Ryland had whispered about.
“There’s a hallway past the main bar,” Callum’s voice came again. “Double doors, manned. See it?”
She glanced casually. A wide corridor led deeper into the building. Another black-suited guard stood passively beside dark wooden doors.
“I see it.”
“That’s the interest. No one’s going in or out without a separate pass. Note who does.”
They circled for twenty minutes, Nate making inane comments about the art, Teresa forcing laughter that sounded hollow in her own ears. She watched the guarded doors. A silver-haired man with a cane presented a small black card and was admitted. A few minutes later, a couple in their fifties did the same.
“It’s a tiered event,” she whispered under her breath, turning her head towards a sculpture as if admiring it. “Public gallery out here, private club back there.”
“Confirmed,” Callum crackled back. “We need to know what’s behind those doors.”
A waiter passed with a tray of whisky. Teresa took one, the liquid burning a trail of false courage down her throat. As she lowered the glass, her eyes locked with a man across the room. He was younger than most, maybe forty, with a carefully trimmed beard and watchful, dark eyes. He held a glass but wasn’t drinking. He was watching the crowd. Watching the guarded doors.
Watching her.
A cold trickle of sweat traced her spine. “Callum. Bearded man, grey suit, by the pillar. He’s made me.”
A pause on the line. “Describe.”
“Thin. Sharp beard. Dark eyes. He’s not here for the art.”
“Don’t stare. Keep moving with Nate. Towards the east wall.”
She did, letting Nate guide her, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could feel the man’s gaze like a physical pressure.
“He’s moving,” Callum said, his voice taut. “Parallel to you. He’s working the room. Might be security. Might be something else.”
The man intercepted a waiter, exchanged a few words, and then began moving again, this time with purpose. Not towards her. Towards a young woman standing alone near a massive bronze figure. The woman was beautiful, with a nervous smile, her eyes darting around as if waiting for someone. She looked slightly out of place, her dress a season behind.
Teresa watched, frozen, as the bearded man approached her. He smiled, all charm, and said something. The woman’s tense posture relaxed slightly. He gestured with his head towards the quieter, shadowy alcove near the restrooms. After a hesitant moment, she nodded.
“He’s engaging a solo female,” Teresa breathed. “Leading her to the side.”
“Nate, get closer. Casual. Teresa, hang back but keep visual.”
Nate detached himself, wandering towards a nearby display, glass in hand. Teresa pretended to be engrossed in her phone, her camera app open but unused, the screen reflecting the dim scene in the alcove.
The man was talking, leaning in. The woman laughed, a nervous, tinkling sound. Then the man’s hand came up, not touching her, but gesturing. In his palm was a small, flat object. A black card.
The woman’s eyes widened. She shook her head, taking a small step back. The man’s smile didn’t falter, but it changed. The charm evaporated, replaced by something placid and insistent. He stepped closer, cornering her gently against the wall.
Teresa’s blood went cold. “He’s showing her a pass. She’s refusing. He’s pressing.”
“Nate,” Callum’s voice was sharp in her ear.
Nate was already moving, cutting smoothly across the floor. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice warm and slightly loud. “Sorry to interrupt, but darling, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere. Mr. Ahren is eager to meet you.” He seamlessly inserted himself between the woman and the bearded man, taking the woman’s arm.
The woman looked stunned, then profoundly relieved. “Oh! Yes, of course.”
The bearded man’s eyes flickered from the woman to Nate, his expression cooling into polite neutrality. “My mistake,” he said, his voice smooth. “I thought you were someone else.”
He melted back into the crowd without a second glance.
Nate led the confused woman away, depositing her with a group of her actual friends near the bar before returning to Teresa’s side. His face was calm, but a muscle ticked in his jaw.
“That was a procurement,” Callum’s voice was grim in Teresa’s ear. “Clean and quiet. In a room full of people. She was a target. He was offering a backstage pass to something.”
The polished atmosphere of the gallery now felt like a thin veneer over something deeply rotten. The laughter sounded predatory. The art looked like jagged teeth.
“We need to know what’s behind that door,” Teresa muttered.
“We can’t. Not tonight. You’ve been made, or at least he’ll remember your face. It’s time to go. Nate, exit protocol. Now.”
Nate guided her firmly towards the entrance. Teresa’s legs felt weak. As they passed the guarded hallway, the wooden door opened briefly as someone exited. The glimpse was fleeting: a richer, warmer light, the murmur of different music, the glimpse of paintings on a wall that were not avant-garde sculpture, but classical portraits. And the figure stepping out, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, was the silver-haired man with the cane. He wasn’t alone. A younger woman, her arm linked in his, followed. She was stunning, with a vacant, trained smile. Her eyes, as they swept across the public gallery, were flat and hollow.
Teresa’s breath caught. The girl’s dress, the specific shade of icy blue, was one she’d seen before. In a photo on Cassadee’s Instagram, from a trip last summer. The find of the season! Cassadee had captioned it.
It was Cassadee’s dress.
The door swung shut, cutting off the view.
“Teresa?” Nate’s voice was urgent. “Keep walking.”
She stumbled, her vision tunneling. Callum was saying something in her ear, but the words were a buzz. The wire felt like it was burning into her skin, a leash and a lifeline all at once.
She hit the cool night air and gulped it down like she was drowning.
In the car, Callum was already there, his face stark in the dashboard lights. “What happened? You froze.”
Teresa turned to him, all the color drained from her face. “The dress. The woman who came out with the silver-haired man. She was wearing Cassadee’s dress. I know it. I know it.”
The car went silent. The implication settled over them, heavier than the darkness outside.
Callum stared at her, his professional detachment finally shattering. Raw, gut-punched horror looked back at her. He had seen the same hollow look in other eyes, on other cases that still haunted him.
“You’re sure?” His voice was rough.
“I’m sure.” The words were a whisper. “She’s here, Callum. She was right behind that door.”
He looked from her shattered expression to the glowing facade of the gallery, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. The rulebook was ashes now. The whisper had become a scream.
“Then we’re getting in,” he said, the words a low, definitive vow. “Whatever it takes.”